The Choice
by Miriza
Summary: Sherlock s father loses his son to James Moriarty, a criminal mastermind, who begins his hard work to turn a protected son of a wealthy family into an obedient concubine. John Watson, an ex-army doctor, works as a doctor for rich people s slaves. Mycroft Holmes starts to investigate, what has happened to his mysteriously disappeared brother. AU-slave –story.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock´s father a proportion, which changes young Sherlock´s life. John Watson is suffering from the aftermath of his traumatic war experiences, and is working as a doctor for rich people´s slaves. Then James Moriarty decides, that his favorite toy slave needs a doctor.

Warnings: AU-slavery. Bad treatment of slaves, social inequity, subordination, abusive relationship, sexual abuse, etc.

Disclaimers: Sherlock and other characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC. I don´t own them, I don´t make money with them.

Thank you to my lovely beta reader Cryptic Nymph for her hard work. All mistakes are mine.

* * *

Their game was on.

It was not a game of noisy words or shouts. The men around the heavy antic oak table watched silently as the two gamblers who remained tried to beat each other. Only short words were uttered, as they investigated their final cards, trying to decide what would be the best move to take next. No-one paid any attention to the blond male slave behind the men, hardly eighteen years old, but he was still alert and ready to fill their glasses or any other wishes these men might demand of him. The brand on his forehead was clearly visible. The sign of ownership. His right: to be used. An old-fashioned bulb lit the smoke-filled room dimly.

"Do you call, Mr. Holmes?" grunted the other gambler; a man in his forties, though his hair was already greying, to match his grey eyes. Hard and calculating, the eyes of professional. His face was expressionless, looking still more like a military man than a criminal. A man with muscles, used to giving and taking orders.

"Wait. Three." The other man said finally. The cards were changed and the man, known as Mr. Holmes, had to make an effort to keep his face expressionless. He was almost a professional himself, but this night had been hard and so much was at stake. He was determined to win, but was so close to losing all.

His fortune had already decreased during these years after the War and after his successful business with army supplies and guns had gone down. His new business with the tinned food industry didn´t offer him big money, or what was worse, the thrill which he had been used to in the war time. Still, he could have spent peaceful days with his family and running his business, but it wasn´t enough for his restless mind. Bored and frustrated, he let his war-time business companion, Colonel Sebastian Moran, lead him into a gaming club.

The new world of uncertainty and the possibility of winning big money in a short time gave him the excitement he had longed for. It seemed like a paradise to Richard Holmes for a while, until his downfall had begun. He lost more than he could afford, but he returned over and over again. His luck could have turned better anytime. He had no other options.

He had lost considerable sums of money, more than he could afford. Now he was gambling his last valuable possession, his family mansion, as his last attempt to improve his situation, to pay at least some of his debts and get back his lost property and self-respect.

On the other hand, if he lost now, then it would be the end of his wealthy life style, his family´s good name and property, and even his marriage, which he couldn´t let it happen.

He was ready to do anything to prevent it.

It was time to reveal his cards for all to see.

He laid his cards slowly on the table: three, four, five, six and seven of hearts. _Straight flush_.

If this was not the winning hand, then what would be? There was only one better hand than his, but statistically, the chances that his opponent had it were minimal. This couldn´t have gone better. This was the turning point for his luck. This had to be the taste of victory!

"Colonel Moran. Your turn." He could not lose, not this time. His most valuable family property, his family mansion, was safe. His marriage was safe. His life would be worth living again. Soon, very soon, everything would be like before, or even better. He would stop his gambling and concentrate on more serious business again.

"With pleasure," the Colonel answered, starting to reveal his own cards slowly. When they lay side by side with Richard Holmes´s cards, his victorious mood had vanished. Instead, he felt a knot in his stomach, like someone had just punched him in his solar plexus and he couldn´t get enough air. He still didn´t let any signs of his inner turmoil show.

This wasn´t real.

Ten, Jack, Queen, King, Ace. The royal flush against Mr. Holmes´s straight flush.

This had to be a bad dream. The likelihood that these two hands would be against each other was almost nonexistent.

What an unexpected turn of events. Richard Holmes suppressed his urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

_The royal flush._

Holy fuck.

"It seems as though it is time for you to start looking for a new place to live, Mr. Holmes," his former business partner said wryly. "Like some cozy little place a family of four could live in. Though not exactly a mansion."

Mr. Richard Holmes's final game had ended.

"Unless… Unless we can reach an agreement. There is always a choice."

When Richard Holmes drove home later that night, the conversation he had had with his gambling partner still echoed in his ears.

"Yo_ur son, Mr. Holmes, is key to our problem," Colonel Moran said to his former business partner, forming perfectly round blue smoke circles with his expensive Cuban cigar._

"_I have two sons, in fact. Please, would you explain further?"_

"_I will. My friend, a wealthy, influential gentleman, is looking for a suitable young man to be his new partner. He isn´t interested in a traditional marriage with a woman. He's looking for a man with a proper background and look. His former partner died unexpectedly after a short sickness. I understand that your younger son would be a suitable candidate."_

_Mr. Richard Holmes frowned. He wasn´t sure if he was pleased with the direction that their conversation was turning. _

_Colonel Moran took a sip from his golden drink before he continued. The ice cubes made a little noise against a glass as he put the glass back on the table._

"_You are a smart man, Mr. Holmes. I know you as a business associate and a gambler, and I have learnt to respect you. Don´t insult me by pretending that this is too difficult for you to comprehend. I am ready to forget my right to your property, even help you with your, eh, current financial problems, if you accept my offer. My friend understands that your younger son is the more preferable young man for his purpose. My friend is an influential man and ready to remember those who have helped him. His friendship would help you with your little financial problems. He is also a very tactful person, __keeping__ a low profile with his actions. But I can assure you, you won´t want him as your enemy. That's why he has gained such success and his reputation remains illustrious to the public. Your wife wouldn´t know anything. So, what's your answer?"_

_Colonel Moran didn´t even try to hide his admiration of his friend. _

"_Your… ehhr… friend could well purchase a slave boy for his purposes. Why choose a free boy from a well-known family like mine? It would be so much more complicated. And my son is surely not the easiest choice."_

"_Exactly. He loves a good challenge. He wants to do things the hard way. It gives him so much more."_

Mr. Holmes stared at his cards as if they could guide him in the right direction: to choose between his younger son or his home. Losing his estate would mean the end of his current life. It was his main property. Besides, he couldn´t hide his gambling anymore from his wife any longer. She wouldn´t forgive him. He wouldn´t allow himself to lose it, at any cost.

Moran´s suggestion was unusual, but not unheard of. It was not illegal in their society.

The problem was, his wife was very keen on their younger son. He had always been her favorite and under her special protection, despite his problematic personality and the constant troubles he caused. His younger son was a time bomb, waiting for any excuse to explode.

The choice was frighteningly easy to make. The older Holmes only had to invent a believable story for his wife about why her younger son would disappear suddenly. Of course he couldn´t tell her that he had lost him in a poker game.

He had already thought it over, when his driver drove them to the wide front drive of the Holmes mansion.

* * *

An elaborate melody of a violin echoed from behind the closed door of his son´s room. His son being awake, disturbing his family with his playing at such late hours of the night, didn´t surprise Mr. Holmes. He didn´t care for music, considering it a useless activity. He waited a second before he pushed the door open, stepping in without bothering to knock first.

His son´s silhouette stood out against the window, his back to the dark room, his tall, lanky body expressing his concentration on the music. He didn´t turn to look at his father, although he was aware of his presence. His father turned the lights on. He should have finished playing to show his respect for his father, such was the etiquette expected, but he seldom cared for such formalities. His father frowned, suppressing his irritation towards his unruly son. Not now, when he had more important things to talk about with his son. His son had always been like that, difficult to handle even at his best, impossible most of the time.

The room looked a mess. Clothes lay all over the floor; the bed was, naturally, unmade; several experiments were occurring in the self-made laboratory on his table; unfinished experiments all over, in petri dishes growing cultures, who looked more molds than anything else, in breakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, desiccators and volumetric flasks among other laboratory glassware, suspect powders waiting for further tests or colorful liquids spreading an unhealthy smell into the air.

_He was most likely creating a new disease,_ thought Richard, _and using us as his lab rats._

He was forbidden from experimenting inside the house after the explosion and subsequent fire in the kitchen. Their kitchen slave had gone hysterical after the incident, refusing to return to her work, and the older Holmes had to call a doctor for her. Even that event didn´t stop him from building a new laboratory in his own room, and there it was still.

An embarrassing thought occurred to him: This agreement would offer a neat solution for what he should do with his troublesome offspring. To name just one example of his appalling behaviour: that catastrophic dinner, when he had invited his older son´s headmaster and some other important authorities, and his mouthy eight year old son revealed how the headmaster´s wife had cheated on her husband with Mycroft´s gymnastics teacher… Richard had tried to save the evening by telling them that the boy had a very rare variation of Tourette's syndrome, and that they should simply ignore him. He had ordered his son to his room and locked him there for the rest of that night, letting him out only the next afternoon. His older son had had a pensive look on his face, but he stayed silent.

His son´s play turned nervous, almost hostile, when he sensed that his father had stepped into his room. He should have knocked... definitely, he should have. He wasn´t a child any more, he had his right to privacy...

His father registered the change in the music, but dismissed it with a shrug.

"Sherlock, would you stop that noise? I have much to discuss with you."

No reaction. His father frowned. His son had no right to pretend that he didn´t notice his father. He came closer to his son, grabbed the violin and pushed it forcefully aside. The only thing which stopped him from smashing the hated instrument against a wall here and now was that it was his wife´s gift to his son, and it had been very expensive. Richard Holmes had always respected money.

His son didn´t respect anything at all. A son like that didn´t deserve his father.

"Could you pay some attention to me, son?" He repeated, irritated, as his son ignored him completely. This stubborn boy had always brought out the worst in him, though he had tried to hide it for the sake of his wife, so as to avoid an argument.

"Let go of my violin, father," his son hissed. He didn´t want to listen to his father. He just needed to be by himself, in his own thoughts. They stared at each other coldly.

"You don´t seem to have brought home any profits tonight, father."

"Now, listen carefully, son. Do you care for your mother?"

The question surprised him. "Of course, father. You know that."

"And you don´t want to upset her, at any cost?"

"No, I don´t." The younger man answered curtly, not loosening his hold on his precious instrument.

His father frowned at the lack of respect in his son´s answer. He had never given him any. But soon, very soon, he wouldn´t need to suffer that misfortune ever again. The thought of it made this so much easier.

"Then I want you to be a decent son for once. Listen to me very carefully and do as I tell you; just this once, for your family. You should be grateful, I'm offering you a chance to show your love for your family, for your beloved mother."

His father stood before him and told him about the agreement he had made with this criminal, Colonel Moran. He told him that his future was over now, and what he expected him to do.

"What about my studies, father?" Sherlock had been planning to study chemistry at university.

His father snorted, and told him that he could forget his personal plans. This was the only alternative he had henceforth.

"There is always an alternative!" His son shouted, without realizing he had raised his voice. Another sign of disrespect, but he didn´t care about that at this moment. His father couldn´t do such a thing.

"Don´t start with your usual tantrums. Try to behave. Remember, you can save your mother´s health and home. Her health is not as it used to be. Don´t worry her more than you already have. Your duty as a son is to guarantee the wellbeing of your family, in all the means you have. And to obey your father, of course. You can now do both."

"What if they have wanted Mycroft? Would you agree with them – give him up just like this?"

"You are the one this gentleman is interested in. You should consider yourself honored. "Don´t be difficult. Keep your brother away from this. Mycroft has nothing to do with our contract. You wouldn´t be in this trouble now if you had been more like him. Stop worrying your mother."

"Me? I worried her? How about your gambling problem? If she knew about that, how it would affect her health?" His son asked bitterly, his gaze not leaving his father as he locked the window to prevent any escape attempts. Richard Holmes didn´t expect his son to try anything, not when his mother´s health and well-being depended on his co-operation, but he wanted to be sure.

Sherlock's father didn´t answer. He turned on his heel and left a meaningless name echoing in the air after him: Moriarty. James Moriarty.

"But it is my birthday soon…" His son whispered to the empty room.

Soon, he would be 18. Usually he wouldn´t have cared about such trivialities as birthdays, but after that day, his father couldn´t have sold him. But he wasn´t yet an adult, and the contract had already been signed. Technically, he was already this man´s property, his slave partner. He closed his eyes, trying to pronounce that impossible word, to taste the preposterousness of this mocking term. More a concubine than a real partner, with the rights and social status that real wives had. What a crooked twist in his life...

Of course, Sherlock knew about slaves, like he knew that the solar system existed, but that was all. He hadn´t given a second thought to the institution until now, when he had to.

He had to get out of here. He methodically probed his now secured window. He knew, that it was secured carefully to prevent his escape attempts, but he could easily to break out using acids, which he used in cleaning his laboratory glassware. There was another alternative to this life, as he had told his father, to get out from this room, to run away from the life of a slave. But he couldn´t, if he cared for his mother. He knew that he probably could find a way to leave, but then his mother would suffer. He was strong enough to withstand his fate, to protect her from his father´s weakness. And besides, where could a slave escape to?

This was his last night at his home. He needed to prepare for his future, not the one that had been stolen from him.

He raised his violin gently. He tried to continue the melody he had played earlier, before his father had interrupted him, but instead of that elegant melody, he only managed to get aggressive screeches from his violin. After trying for some time, he gave up, and put his valuable instrument down again on the bed and went to lie by it. He touched his violin like it was alive, a warm and feeling human being, its wood smooth and comforting. He stared at the opposite wall, waiting for dawn and his father's call.

He decided that whatever happened, whatever methods his future owner used on him, he would return them wholly. He wouldn't submit willingly to his new role. Maybe his new owner would like a misbehaving slave.

Most importantly, who was James Moriarty, who wanted a son of a free man as his concubine? He surely didn´t pick Sherlock randomly, he must have had a good reason for it.

Had he spied on him? And if so, why?

The night started to turn from dark velvet to an early daybreak, and eventually the door opened again. This time behind his father came his personal driver, who knew about all his father´s secret trips and business.

"It is time to go."

When his son took his violin from the bed to put it into a violin box and take with him, his father interrupted him.

"Are you going to take it?"

"Yes."

"I don´t believe that you would be allowed to keep it."

Sherlock stiffened. He wouldn´t leave without his violin. It was his most precious possession.

"I will, anyway. I won´t leave without it."

His father considered it for a moment.

"It is an expensive instrument. Slaves are not allowed to own such things."

His son didn´t let go. Mr. Holmes looked at his son tentatively, giving in reluctantly.

"All right then."

* * *

The father and son stepped out to meet a warm summer's morning. It was so early that inside the rest of his family were still sleeping: his mother in her private bedroom, his older brother Mycroft, who was making a career in the British Government, so Sherlock was told, an expected visitor in his father´s house.

The early morning promised a beautiful day to come. Sherlock dismissed the greenness of vegetation and the birds´ song. They didn´t exist to him anymore. His father pushed him inside his old Bentley, locked his seat belt and sat next to him, as the driver locked the car doors. Richard Holmes gave a sign to the driver, who started the engine, and the car began its long journey away from Sherlock´s childhood and former future.

They didn´t talk to each other during the whole two-hour drive, from the posh part of city to a completely different kind of area, filled with abandoned factories and warehouses. Richard didn´t like this part of London at all, but Moran had given him this address, and he knew better than to object. There wasn´t really anything to say. His life was in the hands of Colonel Moran´s friend´s good will. If he was happy with their bargain, Richard Holmes would be free from his debts and get a fresh start in life.

The driver opened the door. He wasn´t just a driver, but also Richard Holmes´s personal body guard and right hand man. He had muscles and fighting skills. Richard´s skinny son would not have a chance in a fight against him. Naturally, the driver respected all the members of the family, but his real loyalty was to Richard Holmes´s orders.

Colonel Moran and his four muscular minions were already waited. On Moran's orders, the four circled the new-comers quickly and separated Sherlock from the others, forcing his hands behind his back and handcuffing him. Moran smiled widely when he saw that Richard Holmes had kept his word.

"A new slave cannot walk over like that, not without proper accessories."

Sherlock stared him, keeping his head up proudly, reading the life of the man in front of him. Moran stared back at him, like he was an object. His client – his friend – would be satisfied. When he was happy, then Moran would be. It was a neat working arrangement between them.

"He is a pretty little thing. I can see why Mr. Moriarty is so keen to obtain him. Everything seems to be in order."

This man didn´t talk to him but about him, though he stood before him, so near that he could... and he did. The young man spat in the older one's face. The gesture expressed accurately his thoughts about this Colonel. _An army man._ No need to waste oxygen to him.

Everybody tensed. Mr. Holmes hurried to give him a clean handkerchief.

"I am so sorry. This is new for him… He is difficult, even at his best."

Moran wiped himself clean slowly.

"Oh dear. He has a temper. Moriarty has work to do with this one. He's lucky that Moriarty gave me strict instructions about how to handle him."

But then his gaze stopped on the black violin case, which had dropped onto the concrete when Sherlock's hands were cuffed.

"He insisted on taking it with him. It is very important to him. More important than humans," Richard explained nervously.

Glee spread over Moran´s face. He had an idea.

"Is that so? Too bad. He cannot keep it. Could you take it out of its box, Richard?"

Richard Holmes hesitated. He knew what Moran was going to do, and for the first time, he felt something close to regret, though the feeling vanished soon.

Sherlock knew also, and paled.

"No! Father!" He shrieked, attempted to come loose from Moran´s minions´ grasp.

"Listen, I can take the instrument with me, Moran, so you don´t need to wonder what to do with it. It isn´t exactly his, not anymore…" Richard tried.

"Take it out of the box! Now!" Richard didn´t dare to object more. He opened the box to take the instrument out, and gave the beautiful violin to Moran.

"It really is a rare item, like its owner." Moran grinned, placed it on the ground and stepped on it. The wood cracked dryly under Moran´s weight.

"You will be as broken, sooner or later, as your precious instrument." He spat the words to Sherlock.

He stepped off and nodded to elder Holmes to collect its remains and put them back in its box.

"Enough of that! Boys, it's time to go."

Somebody bent Sherlock´s head back to make a vein more accessible. Then he felt a sting in his neck. The stinging sensation spread from the injection all over his body. This time they let him go, and he took a wobbling step, his limps heavy and his sight blurred.

"So strong. It burns…" He thought, before the darkness swallowed his mind and he collapsed into the waiting arms of Moran´s men.

* * *

I am not very familiar with poker vocabulary. So, I studied a bit of it from internet. There may be some inaccuracy still left. I am hoping for understanding.

Sherlock is still a young man in my story (although almost an adult), who has lived a protected life concentrating to his studies and violin playing, so he may be a bit softer here than in the tv-show.

To make the story more believable, I have to change the other characters´ age as well. So James Moriarty must be a bit older than Sherlock here to be a beliavable criminal master mind and a leader of a crime organisation. Mycroft still seven years older than Sherlock, and Watson near thirty, because he is already a doctor and has taken part in the War, so he is something near thirty.


	2. Chapter 2

His head ached, his brain too sluggish to function properly, and he felt like nausea was almost on its way. He suppressed the revulsion and instinctively tried to rise up, but an obstacle hit his back and blocked his movement. Stretching himself didn´t work either, as a wire web blocked his way.

He shook his head, struggling to clear his head, to make some sense of where he was and how.

The drug had been injected to keep him unconscious during the drive to wherever their destiny might be, but its effect had started to fade by the time they had prepared him for his new status.

Despite being inexperienced with the common procedure of new slaves´ treatment, he supposed that this would prepare him for meeting his new owner. He was not a typical slave but a free man´s son, sold as an expensive toy for a man who could afford such a rarity for himself. It was kinkiness in its own class, fun like killing protected species- the hint of wrongness in it provided extra enjoyment for the man behind this.

He had been pushed into a tiny wire cage, like a chicken in its torturously small battery coop, where he was unable to lie down or stand straight. A restricted place for a man of his size – for a man of any size - to spend for any prolonged period of time. His only options were to crouch, doglike, or try to get some rest by bringing his knees almost up to his jaw. There wasn´t much space to do anything else. His every attempt to move made the cage swing above the floor, where a strong cable connected it to the roof. The feel of steel wire was pressing into his bare skin, and suddenly he became aware that his clothes had been changed: instead of his fitted black jeans and expensive white shirt, he wore a sleeveless grey t-shirt and thin cotton shorts. He didn´t have anything else to protect him against the thin metal wires, which pressed against his delicate skin, leaving their marks. The room around him was bare, cold and dull-colored, with no other furniture there than his cage. The closed door reminded him that there was still an outside world somewhere behind it.

It was all meant to make him aware that he shouldn´t have any grand illusions of status in the hierarchy of the new household, despite the fact that he was to become the partner for the master of the house. He was on the bottom, not even allowed a proper space to get some real rest or to stand, straight or crooked. So tiny a space… _Concentrate,_ he ordered himself firmly. _They're just trying to scare you, to make you more amenable to your fate. You are above whatever they do to you. After all, this is just the start, a welcome_.

He started to realize that it was possible he would spend a considerably long time in this little cage, with no other shelter than his sparse clothing and his own skin.

When there was nothing else to do, he fell into a restless sleep, which was interrupted abruptly when someone harshly shook the cage until he opened his eyes. A bold man with colorless eyes had a hold on his cage, letting go when he saw Sherlock was awake, holding his gaze silently.

"Is it dinner time?" Sherlock asked mockingly, curious about the mark of the slave tattooed on the man´s forehead. This unknown man was a slave, too, and still he came to taunt a new slave. So much for solidarity amongst the ones at the bottom of the hierarchy.

"I would consume you, sweetie." The voice sounded as toneless as the whole man was featureless. "The beauty of this cage is how practical it is. You are neatly inside, and I could, for example, drown you in it. Keep it there until you aren´t sure if you are still alive or already drowned. Or…" The man mused over the many possibilities one tiny cage filled with a human being offered. "Or I could electrify your cage. How many jolts could you take before you screamed?… Screamed like a girl… How much would it need to roast you alive? How would you look if your pretty white skin was red and burnt?"

"Are you wasting my time or do you have something important to say?" Sherlock sounded self-confident, although he didn´t feel like it. He hoped to find out if the man was under an order to scare him, or if he had come to taunt him for his own fun. "You just talk."

"Don´t be so sure about it, free boy. Oh, but you're not so free anymore." The man shook his cage fiercely again, making him hit against the wires. He laughed at his prisoner. He had a dagger with him, its blade thin enough that he could get it between the metal wires. He struck the blade forcefully into Sherlock´s hand, pinning the hand against the metal web, turning it in the wound as he continued. "What a lovely girl we have this time… Do you wait for your master eagerly, sweetie? You're counting on him to protect you, aren´t you, honey? Don´t be so sure about that. He will love to play with you, I can tell you that much. I can _hear_ your heart beating from excitement. Oh, do you shiver in anticipation?" The man blabbered on with this nonsense, poking him with his knife everywhere he could reach. He left bleeding wounds on Sherlock's skin, the young man unable to defend himself.

_A girl?_ What was this man talking about?

He continued until Sherlock was sure he couldn´t take it any longer, that he would say something which he would regret if he continued.

Eventually the man left, satisfied. To Sherlock, being alone again felt like bliss.

The dull ache of his wounds faded, leaving him thirsty, his stomach empty. But how could he fulfill its demands? Should he shout for someone to come? Likely no-one would come if he did. It probably wouldn´t do him any good. He had to wait.

And he did.

Nothing new happened for a time, though his hunger began to be more difficult to ignore.

Everything was possible, even the notion that there had been a mistake and they had forgotten him, or that this _Moriarty_ had changed his mind and decided to let him rot in his prison.

The door stayed closed. The door stayed closed. Nothing changed. Only the hunger, and yes, he dreamt about water, running water and waterfalls. Then he woke, but the door still didn´t open. Not yet.

Until, finally, the door of his forgotten room fell open. Three men stepped in, slave brands on their foreheads. They wore black loose trousers and black t-shirts. Slaves came to prepare him to meet his master. _Interesting. James Moriarty uses his old slaves to prepare a new one._

They told him to be still, that he needed to be cleaned. It was wash time then, but wouldn´t they help him out of the cage first? One of them aimed the hose at him. There had to be a faucet near, in the corridor? It was wash time, but please, not like that… No, he had to get out… But then the man sprayed the hose and water hit him in a blast. He was sprayed everywhere until he was wet and shivering from the cold water, yet he was still thirsty.

He was dragged out of the cage, though they didn't need to have done that. He was more than eager to get out from the prison. His clothes were taken from him and he was toweled dry, given new clothes, and at last a glass of water. He wouldn´t have believed a week ago that he would be so thankful for a glass of water, but he was. And it was pathetic. How quickly they had done this to him, Sherlock Holmes, who had been so proud of his stoic self-control.

They told him, to their amusement, that he was going to meet his husband, the man who bought him, mysterious Mr. Moriarty.

This new room did not differentiate from the first one. So far, he had only been allowed to see featureless, grey rooms, full of nothingness.

He was forced onto his knees, a firm grip on his hair to keep his head up. A thin leather strip tied his wrists together behind his back. This time, he was only allowed to wear shorts; his torso was bare for his master´s eyes to appraise him. They told him to behave, not to upset or insult his master if he didn´t want any troubles. In his mind he already was, the memory of chill water remaining on his still-damp skin, in his bones, his hunger eating away at him inside.

He just didn´t understand what they meant about behaving in his situation. They promptly explained- he had to be polite, not to turn his eyes away from his master´s face. He had to pay full attention to the man who owned him, to listen to his words and agree with all he said, not to upset him.

He was meant to meet his new husband… How comic. He was being treated like a beast or an animal. A trophy, perhaps?

He had hoped that his future owner – he refused to think of him as his husband, as he probably should - would be a decent man, against all the odds. A man with a righteous mind, and maybe even with compassion, although he understood that if he had been such a character, he wouldn´t treat his so-called wife like this. He wouldn´t treat people like possessions. At the very least, he wouldn´t accquire his alleged bride through a gambling debt. He wouldn´t get his enjoyment from humiliating and breaking people.

"So, what have we got here! Such a lovely sight!" The man´s accent could be clearly heard in the silence of the room. When he saw him, he observed him, and yet how little it revealed, how unreadable this man was… His instincts told him to stay away, but the hands of the trusted house slaves – the same hands which had stripped him, washed him in that humiliating way – didn´t even let him turn his head. This surprising little man in his ridiculous, expensive tailored suit came as near enough to touch him, his mouth full of sharp, whitened teeth. And a realization struck the young man that there was no hope behind these dead eyes, just a valley of death, guarded by a demon of lies.

Now the man stood, his cold gaze evaluated him. He didn´t flinch under the scrutiny.

"Perfect… A virgin, I see, inexperienced. He needs proper training for his future duties. We´ll start with him at once, to get the desired results. He has so much to learn! _So_ exciting! It always is with a new one." The little man petted his cheek.

"You have stalked me. Why?" Sherlock needed to know. That was his most fundamental question. Why did this man choose him?

"Clever boy! Yes, I have observed you already, for some time. Oh, who wouldn´t? I knew that our paths would cross one day. I have waited for some time already to get my chance. The day has finally come, but it is just the beginning of our shared story. I have a lot of work to do with you before you are ready for me. The day will come when you confess, 'You are everything to me. I owe you all.' You don´t believe it now, my dear, but that day will come. Then your body and soul will be mine, completely, and your reckless mind will have only one problem to solve- how to fulfill my wishes."

Sherlock´s expression turned from curious to incredulous, and then finally to loathing, whilst the man in front of him laughed, softly but humorlessly. But Sherlock was sure that there was more, that something had been unsaid.

"I won´t. I am not like the others." There had been other young men before him, he wasn´t the first one.

"Oh, yesss, you will," He hissed. "They all did, finally, when I was done with them. You are not an exception. You will adjust." The man stroke his curls, then gently petted his cheek with his thumb, and Sherlock flinched as though the touch burnt him. In some sense, it did. The unwanted touch was the first of so many he would receive. He yanked his head away, squirming in the grip, but the hand in his hair dragged his head backwards with considerable force, arching his back.

"Be still!" The command came from behind him. The man who had spoken immediately apologized to Moriarty, whose good mood had only increased with this tiny act of disobedience.

"Of course, he needs the brand!" He spoke to the other men. "Ready?"

"Yes, sir." Sherlock knew the man from his voice; he was the featureless figure who had come to taunt him when he was in his cage. Now he gave something to Moriarty, and Sherlock tried instinctively to move back, away from this object. Its surface was so hot that it glowed red. It was so close to him now that he could feel its heat. Wriggling was all he managed to do, he had to break the hold… He had to... Moriarty kept the brand near his skin, enjoying the distress he was so unable to hide, before he thrust the branding iron to his chest. It hissed against him, leaving the initials J. M. burning on his skin. He could smell his skin burning, but he managed not to scream aloud. A tiny victory- his new owner didn´t get that joy from him. Not yet, not here.

Moriarty marked a new slave with his initials above his heart. Not a common place for a slave mark, where it wasn´t visible if a slave wore a shirt, but Moriarty likely thought that he didn´t need a mark on his forehead. His status would be clear to all, and he probably wouldn´t leave Moriarty´s house.

Nowadays, a slave mark was tattooed on slave´s skin. True, that was painful too, but it was nothing compared to the ancient method of burning a mark onto the skin that Moriarty used on him.

Sherlock had no idea how much pain this barbarous act would cause before the hot iron touched his skin. He decided at this moment that he would never call this cruel, pitiful little man his husband.

"By the way, these men, who are going to take care of you when I am busy with my business," Moriarty nodded towards his underlings around Sherlock, the featureless one and the two who kept him in his place, "are slaves too, as you have surely already noticed. But don´t expect them to show any compassion towards you, or to help you. They were born into slavery and have had thorough training to serve owners like me. What they hate most are arrogant, spoiled rich kids like you, born in freedom, who've had everything. What they've never had. Whose fathers are slave-owners themselves. Now they have you in their hands. They can't wait for their turn to teach you a lesson, to pay you back. They are the most capable trainers I can find for you. I trust them enough to leave you in their hands. And he is in charge." Moriarty pointed the featureless man, who had given the branding iron to his owner.

Moriarty checked his mobile. "I am sorry, but I have to leave you. Work, work, always work! Bye bye, Sherlie!"

When the door of the room closed after Mr Moriarty, the man stepped in his place and introduced himself to Sherlock: "Hello. We have already met. If you want to know my name, you can call me Chameleon. Master has ordered me personally to take care your familiarization. He is used to give his new toys for a trusty person. I am helping him to look after you, softening you a bit for him. He is a busy man and doesn´t have time for everything."

The guy was not much older than Sherlock. Moriarty´s initials were clearly visible on his forehead. Tattooed, not burnt like on him. Burning the mark on the skin was clearly a method, which was used for the chosen ones.

The guy crouched a bit, whispering to Sherlock´s ear: "The best part of the job is, that I enjoy an every second of it." His breathing smelt aniseed as if he had swallowed disinfectant. Moriarty´s underlings were as creepy as the man himself.

"You smell. Go further." Sherlock told him.

"What did you say, little princess? Say it again!"

"You heard me well."

"Colonel Moran was right about you. You are looking for troubles, sweetie."

When Moriarty´s underlings surrounded Sherlock, dragging him to stand and Chameleon pushed his finger onto Sherlock´s fresh burn wound, causing him to yelp and watering his eyes, Sherlock started his own work. He started to strengthen himself by building a mental wall around his still beating, bloody, capable heart, hardening it against what was coming.

.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of torture, some disturbing scenes.

* * *

_When the slave loses himself, he is on his way towards perfection. Losing himself__ i__s the way__ t__o perfection. In the darkness your only direction is into yourself and your only company your abashed thoughts, and when you finally step out from darkness into daylight again you find yourself__ as__ lost as if you__ wer__e still in the darkness of rebirth. And you stand in the bright daylight, blinking, the light too much for your eyes, not adjusted to it.__ Uncertaint__y, when you don´t know where to go, what to think, waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Until you realise the need for instructions, the want__ o__f hearing your master´s__ guidanc__e._

_The greatest beauty of this process is to see how a restless, rebellious, homeless mind finds its peace, when it gives itself up and starts to follow its master´s firm and infallible instructions without hesitation. _

_From the philosophical writings of slavery: The complete, merciful freedom in slavery._

The shock prod touched bare skin again, this time amongst dark pubic hair- yes, almost hitting there, but not quite. Mr Moriarty had strictly forbidden them from ruining his fun prematurely by permanently mutilating his new boy too early. They had learnt not to question their master´s wishes, so they carefully avoided his face or genitals.

But other parts of the slave´s body still offered many delicious possibilities to get his attention. Sherlock distanced himself first by rationalizing that this might be a suitable opportunity to collect data about how electric shocks affected in different parts of human body, anticipating that he would have a chance to use this information later in his life. A back was a wide and surprisingly tender area, but not very imaginative. Different spots of his stomach; in turn both of armpits- when he was still recovering from the last jolt to his right armpit, the prod hit the left one out of the blue. The inner part of his long thighs made him wince; the soles of feet were exceptionally sensitive. It was hard to decide which part was most responsive, if he had to pick just one. He hardly had time to gather himself to collect and store data before the next jolt shocked his nerve system. His body stiffened after every new touch, his muscles started to cramp; until he couldn´t do anything but scream. The screaming had already been building inside him for some time, although he had managed to control it till now. His hands and legs tightly spread like strings, his naked body fastened in a shape of an x, the ghostly white human surface exposed for them to write slavery´s rules on him, so perfectly exposed for them- what joy.

"Look, what a funny face he makes!" somebody noticed.

He was not sure if this was meant to be educational, but at least he had discovered one thing: that he hated electricity.

Several touches with the vicious prod made his body tremble, his pulse quicken. His paralyzed mind expected the next one, which was coming as surely as night followed even the brightest day. He was unable to keep his dismissive facade up as he had planned after so many shocks, which had dramatically reduced his skill to ignore the pain.

When the jolt had hit him in his intimate area, when he had started his primal scream, he didn´t know how to stop, how to gather his dignity any more.

He panted between shocks, hoping it would be over, hoping they would tell him what to do to make it stop once and for all.

The shock made his naked body stiffen and he screamed, although he hadn´t planned to do so.

But things didn´t always go as they had planned.

He heard Chameleon´s orders, "Say, 'thank you, sir.'" When he didn´t answer, the jolt hit him in an especially nasty place, the nape of his neck, in a wicked mimic of a lover´s kiss. His body stiffened in agony, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, his mouth barely open. But no voice came out, and it was all too much for him to stand bravely- when the contact broke, he collapsed, the ties around his wrists the only thing preventing him from crumple. It was all too much and he hated himself because of it.

"Sir, thank you, sir, thank you," he babbled senselessly. At this point, he would have said anything that would make them stop and let him be. Of course, that was what they wanted to achieve, to drop his barriers and make him pliant. He heard laughter around him and someone slapped him on the back of his head.

"That´s the good boy I like," Chameleon taunted.

He still waited for a new jolt to hit him, unable to prepare himself any longer, ready to scream. It didn´t come. He couldn´t even feel relieved, when he hung there naked and helpless like a new-born baby, humiliated and pliant. His strength was drained from him, his heart raced, his weak fingers snaking around his restraints. He listened blindly to the litany which was now recited monotonously, praising the blessings of being a slave, the freedom to give up thinking, making decisions and being human.

* * *

His new residence smelled damp . It was a more questionable smell than what came from his uncompleted experiment in his old laboratory. After the torture session, he was locked in this cold basement cell and he had now been there... for some time now. He lay on a stinking, thin mattress that was his bed, face to a stone wall, his body shivering and trying to produce some warmth against the chilliness of the air in this basement prison.

Then he got his dinner.

First, he had tried to get as close to the cell door as possible. But Chameleon showed him his prod, reminding him what kind of power he carried over him and how ready he was to use it. Then he ordered him back against a wall, and he went, stayed there until his guard was gone, leaving a plate for the prisoner.

He played with his pink plastic spoon in the scoopful of grey mass, which didn´t taste of anything other than from cheap oil. It was, in one word, awful, and it wasn´t enough to give him the energy and nutrition he needed. This pitiful excuse for food was meant to keep him from dying of hunger. He didn´t usually pay much attention to his food and he used to eat little, but still, this… He didn't recognize it as human food. They were kind enough to give him a spoon for eating. Another problem was keeping this… porridge… in his stomach. The muddy water he had been given as his drink didn´t make his task of eating any easier, nor the smell which came from the bucket in the corner of his cell. It was meant to be his toilet. It would be nice if it had been cleaned sometimes, but smell was not the worst thing, people got used to it.

His food resembled brain tissue. He had experimented with animal brain tissue as a boy, taking it from dead animals he had found around the area of his home (he did not kill animals for this purpose, it was not necessary when he found enough dead material for his experiments otherwise). As a teenager, he had dreamed of getting a real human brain for his experiments, preferably one with an unknown cause of death, which he could have found out. It would have been like Christmas if he'd had a chance to solve a real murder, if nobody else would have figured out why or how. He was confident that his superior skills could solve puzzles like that, when the police was clueless. He knew that he was a genius of a sort.

But it had never happened.

Now some suitable candidates came to his mind, whose brains would be an acceptable material for grey brain porridge. He wondered if brain tasted the same as his… food. Surely not…

This kind of track of thoughts had become more intriguing after he recovered from the consequences of when he first refused to eat this horrible substance. He had thrown the plate against the bars after Chameleon. The man had turned, grinning, as if Sherlock had just given him a gift, what he had wished for all year. He had been waiting for an excuse to hurt that spoiled, rich kid. Sherlock was sure that everything Chameleon did to him was personal. Chameleon´s two mates were there, ready to help.

Sherlock had struggled, of course, when he had been pinned against the filthy mattress, one man sitting on his chest, the other holding his wrists, whilst the third collected the food back onto the plate the best he could. He still fought against them, squeezing his mouth firmly shut, but Chameleon pushed his first and middle fingers into his nostrils, cutting his air off. He tried to pull Chameleon´s fingers out, to shake his head, but his head was kept still, the fingers stayed there. Finally, he needed air so badly that his head felt like it would explode, and he had to give up. He opened his mouth to gasp. Chameleon was ready with a spoon full of filth and pushed it into his mouth. So it continued, one spoon after another into his mouth, his mouth closed after every spoon to make him swallow. They made sure he was really swallowing it all. He gasped between spoonfuls. He was nearly choking, he thought, Chameleon was killing him with his food. His heart beat fast with the adrenaline, telling him to fight for his life, but he was unable to fulfil the urge. They had taught him that he was not allowed to leave the food uneaten, that he had to obey or something would always happen that was much more unpleasant than just simple forced feeding. _Does he understand?_ Next time he would be on his knees, eating it all from the floor like a dog. And he would do it. _Has he understood?_

_Has he understood?_

_Yes._

And he nodded with difficulty, swallowing the last spoonful of dirty grey porridge.

"_Be grateful, you spoiled little shit."_

"_W...what?"_

"_Say thank you, stupid."_

Chameleon wrenched the dark hair hard from his scalp.

"Say thank you, with respect."

"Th... thank you... thank you, sir."

"That's better. You're starting to learn, kid," Chameleon tapped his cheek playfully.

After the last forced spoon of food they still kept him down, holding his mouth shut as he gazed at them with eyes full of unspoken hate.

Finally they left him alone, panting. The food made his stomach wrench, he really needed to throw up, but he did not dare. He was sure it wouldn´t end without punishment.

But after that, he had eaten everything nicely. Everything he had been given and more.

A cockroach.

Insects were an excellent protein source in challenging circumstances, like in a jungle or a desert- or sitting locked in a basement cell. Sherlock convinced himself that rationally, eating anything one could catch was a completely logical thing to do in his situation. He was naturally right. But he couldn´t help but shudder when he tried to bite his first kill. The learned aversion was hard to conquer, however logical his reasoning might be.

Well, he ate it, after all. The first one was always the hardest, and the second cockroach was much easier to swallow. It wasn´t so bad after all, although they would be more tasty roasted.

He almost welcomed his first spider. He got a chance to compare their differences.

Nothing could taste worse than the dog´s vomit he got as his meal.

Now he spotted a big cockroach, but it was too far away from him to catch. He tried anyway, but his collar, which connected him to the stone wall, wasn´t long enough. He sighed in frustration. He tried once again and finally gave up and sat on his bunk, gazing at the animal, trying to make it come nearer to him with sheer will power, having nothing else to do. Hunting down the insects and spiders offered him a distraction that he needed so much, even more than their nutrition value.

His curls had started to be a bit longer than he liked, and he needed a shave. In fact, he was sure he smelt.

_How long? Two months, likely longer. Hard to say for sure, without clocks or any view outside. _Sherlock had a good sense of time, but even for him it had started to be laborious to keep track of time. Chameleon´s visits were his only interruptions, which were never pleasant or interesting, and Sherlock didn't miss his company. Besides, he couldn´t get any useful information from Moriarty´s man.

He fingered his long curls, pensive. His collar chafed his raw skin. He counted his ribs, which were not hard to locate. He could as well count the rest of his bones just for his amusement. Of course he knew, how many bones a man had in his body, but what if he had lost some?

He fell into sleep, and didn´t know what time he woke, actual nights and days were meaningless here. Behind the bars of his cell stood a girl . He blinked once, then twice, and the girl turned out to be a young woman. Her brown hair was tied in a ponytail; she wore a simple grass green shirt and skirt and her slave mark shone visibly on her forehead. Her expression wasn´t blank or cruel, but frightened, shy and determined. A strange combination, like she had been ordered to do something scary - or more preferably, to meet someone monstrous, but she had decided to do it despite the instinct, which told her to run in another direction.

She had a tray with her… So she had brought him his meal.

"Hi- hi. I have your dinner," The woman spoke to him quietly. She had too small a mouth for her face, in his opinion. Lipstick would help. It would have done miracles for her, if she had carried herself more proudly. He would probably have pointed out all these tiny details if they had met under some other circumstances, in his school´s lab, but here, now, no. He did not.

She wasn´t meant to talk to him at all. And he would… She put the tray down, concentrated on opening the door. Her hands shook a bit. Why? Had she had been told that he would try something? To bite her? That he was dangerous? It was not a completely wrong assumption, but considering that a short thick chain connected him to an even thicker wall, and if she didn´t seem prepared to give him a key for his collar, it was unlikely that he would attempt anything.

She finally got the door open, and put the tray as near to him as she dared before she retreated.

She stared at his nakedness like he was a captured alien. Not really trusting- he could be potentially dangerous- but also definitely fascinated. She couldn´t move her eyes off his. He was unable to feel ashamed. It was not his fault that they hadn´t given him any clothes. He didn´t move, didn´t try to get the tray, wondering why they had sent this scared woman to him. At least this one had said something to him, showed that she considered him worth a couple of words that he still existed. Then he took a look at the watery soup with a couple of overcooked vegetables in it, and his muddy water. The water looked thicker than the soup. Something changed in the woman´s expression when she saw loathing in his face, and she added apologetically:

"I know, this is not what we usually, I mean, it could be better… If I could..." Her voice trailed off. She looked like she wanted to say more, but she was too nervous and frightened for that. She was very thin, too. Moriarty liked his slaves thin.

It probably it wasn´t him she was afraid of.

At least the woman didn´t treat him like he had leprosy. She had wanted to be kind to him for some unknown reason. Interesting… This could be useful later. He needed allies here. Molly was not born in slavery, so much he could see. In these people´s character, who were forced to slavery, was something mismatched, like this person´s body and mind were disconnected.

Sherlock contemplated her. "Name. What is your name?" His own words sounded wrong in his ears.

"Molly." Then she turned, stepped over the threshold a second time, closed the door with a squeak and fled. She had surely stayed too long, said too many words. Sherlock was sure that it would not be left unnoticed by Moriarty. He was sure he was watched constantly, although he couldn´t see any cameras. He shrugged and turned to investigate his soup.

* * *

Next time – he couldn´t be sure if it was the next day or the day after, the task of keeping track of days and nights was too laborious- Chameleon returned. Sherlock didn´t know if he came because of Molly, or because it was just his turn, but the chained young man withdrew instinctively until his back hit the wall. This time Chameleon didn´t carry the food tray, but he had his familiar back-ups with him. His two so-called friends.

"You have enjoyed our hospitality long enough, slave. It's time for you to do some work for it. But, as a wild one, you need a bit of training. It was time for you to _adjust_. Friends," he told to his companies, "prepare him."

Chameleon´s men (_wrong_, Sherlock reminded himself, they were all Moriarty´s men) gripped his limbs. He managed to kick the first one in the stomach with his bare feet. The man groaned, but the next one was prepared and got a hold on his ankle, making him lose his balance, and he fell onto the dirt. The man clicked shackles onto his ankles, whilst another did the same to his wrists. The chain around his neck was removed. His head was covered by a black hood, before he was ready to be carried… somewhere.

To the next level, perhaps?

Moriarty liked being dramatic. He liked antiques, too.

They let him stand in a dungeon- he couldn´t think of any other words to describe the room they were in now. The hood was taken away so he could take in his surroundings, get himself ready for what was coming. It seemed that the Middle Ages theme had continued. Shackles nicely decorated the stone walls. Hooks completed the interior decoration.

But his eyes stopped on the device in the middle of the room. At the time of inquisition it was often enough just to show a torture device to make a suspect to confess.

How about now?

He had enough time that his destiny properly sunk in. He should be frightened, but this was ridiculous. He was unable to worry his wellbeing. What was wrong with Moriarty? He was not a man with the best mental health. Not even average. Sherlock wasn´t afraid of the reaction they wished from him.

Then he was pushed closer to the device, and a voice whispered in his ear: "Do you know how this beauty works? Want to try?"

"Don´t you think, that this is a bit banal? Inquisition, really?"

"Let´s then try the limits of banality on you, darling."

Two stocks, enough room between them for a grown man, a heavy wedge-shaped block in the middle. All right, what now?

He could picture it.

And he would shortly experience it.

His ankles were secured into the stocks. He was bent, the small of the back against the hard and narrow block, as his wrists were manacled down to the other end of the device.

They were in the Middle Ages in Moriarty´s private time machine. He wouldn´t call this progress, or even very instructive. But it cut his back, and he suspected that he wouldn´t adjust to the device in any time period.

He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, his thoughts under control.

This could still be worse, he reminded himself sternly. It could be The Virgin of Nuremberg.

"A sweet angel of mine, so wonderful to see you in person, it has been a while. Were spiders tasty, Sherly?" It was Moriarty who purred by his arched body. His hand 'accidentally' descended onto his crotch. Although this hateful man did not do anything accidentally.

"They tasted better than what your underlings usually served me."

"I can send your greetings to the cook."

Moriarty´s hand moved on his body.

"If I were you, I wouldn´t bother dear Molly. Such a sweet girl, but inclined to sweet talk. What a shame. She should not be let near psychos like you. You see, I know all about you… About your awkward little societal problems… What a disappointment you have been for your hard-working father, for your loving mother… how many tears for you they have cried, but do you care? Not a bit! Not a bit! Oh dear, a shameless son, a disgrace you have been as a good family´s son. Didn´t you wonder for one second why your father so eagerly gave you up? To keep them safe, darling. Such a tidy way to get rid of the potential danger in a family!"

Now Moriarty pressed his hand heavily on his prisoner´s abdomen, making the edge sink more deeply into his back. He wondered if he would be able to walk afterwards.

"Your family don´t miss you, Sherly. They have wiped you from their mind. You are a danger, Sherly! But my dear, what a beautiful danger."

"There is a name for your kind of people: a sociopath. Have you heard it before? Do you know, Sherly? You don´t care for society. Sociopaths don´t deserve the protection of our beloved society. But you are like me. I knew it. We know that our great society is only a coulisse for real powers, like me. But of course, this is better left unsaid in public."

"You- you are delusional, Moriarty… and I… I am not… like… I won´t ever say yes to you… Never…"

"You do talk? Do you think that this is all, here? No, no, no, there is plenty more!"

"You wouldn´t… Have me… If my f… father did not… owe… you."

"You talk too much, slave. That won´t do! I will fix it. You haven´t yet seen it. You are mine now, your mouth belongs to me."

Sherlock felt Moriarty´s hand sliding on his bare chest, was almost sure, in his increasing discomfort, that his hand touched the burns. All his senses were occupied by one task: not to shatter like a dry twig.

Just as his precious violin had been smashed into pieces. To create such a perfect wooden instrument needed skill and experience of years and a perfect ear for music. How easy it was to wreck. It didn´t need any skill or experience, just one savage. To break a person beyond repair would be more complicated.

"Are you familiar with myths? No? Of course, you´re a man of reason and science. But I am tad fond of old stories with ancient wisdom in them. They tell us about moulding and becoming somebody else. A process of growth, finding an identity, fulfilling your destiny. For example, rebirth. Getting life through death. Like a flower. Have you ever tried to get a plant to bloom?"

Answering the question proved more difficult, as whilst Moriarty talked about the subtleties of plant growing, his mouth was forced open and filled with thick flannel. After that, the hood was replaced around his head. Sherlock had become convinced that his spine was breaking in two. His whole body felt it.

"You need that, Sherly, before you are pretty, mine. Through death, my seed shall blossom. The seed is planted, but it needs water, darkness and fertilization. All these things. And trust in me, don´t forget, babe!"

Moriarty was right, Sherlock wasn´t familiar with myths any more than legends, fairy tales or fables. He knew what green plants needed, so they wouldn´t die, and he knew that he didn´t need them to survive.

"You must be thirsty. Oh, where are my manners? I haven´t offered any water for my guest! So sorry."

Water he received.

Moriarty didn´t talk about surviving, not when he promised a new life.

The black pain of cold water blocked his senses. He had little ability to get air, to think about something else beyond _this_. The wet fabric lay on his face like a second skin, making him gasp uselessly, stealing his last strength from him. Still more water was pouring over his hooded head, the flannel in his mouth, and through his dry throat down into his aching stomach. He was unable to do anything about it, and every cell in him screamed when he didn´t feel Moriarty´s hand any more.

Water filled his mouth and his empty stomach and his mind, he was sure this would be the end. His spine was cracking now and his lungs burning. Panic took control of him- though his rational mind assured him that he wouldn´t die that his animal instincts were just fooling him, his lungs felt ready to explode, his back arching over the wedge. This all felt too much.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like… he wasn´t sure any more.

Until his lips would pronounce the name Moriarty like salvation. Until his only thought was Moriarty´s want.

But he didn´t lower himself to it, he was not there yet, whatever was happening to him now.

* * *

He remembered. This particular memory hadn't been deleted, only buried deep under the strata of his complicated mind. But it emerged now to the surface of his mind, clear for him.

His mother loved to study the sky. She had taught him the names of all the constellations, the wonders of night sky, the mysteries of suns and black holes, the momentary beauty of dying suns, the phases of the moon.

He had deleted all that information as a burden to his brain, to make room for something more important, as he had thought. For knowledge of what makes humans live, and, even more thrillingly, what makes them die.

At this moment, nothing seemed more valuable than this particular memory from his early childhood, when he had studied the limitless space together with his mother.

He saw the stars now, twinkling on the dark night sky. He could almost name the constellations on that sky. It was hard to tell for sure, because he had, well, deleted the exact information. But how did he see the star night here?

His brain was just playing tricks on him. That was how.

Here where he was lying was very dark. But there was no sky full of stars above. He was just imaging them. His fingers touched the solid wooden surface just two inches above him. His aching existence reminded him that he wasn´t dead yet, he hadn´t been given that mercy, but maybe he would later. He could count on that. There was always something to look forward to. So exciting.

He didn´t want to die.

But he could guess that he hadn't yet reached even the midpoint, he was stepping through the gate of his personal loss. He was fulfilling Moriarty´s sick fantasy- _that man needs a straightjacket-_ and it would cost him his life.

His head hurt. His back remembered what he had just gone through. He couldn´t believe his luck that his spine was still functional, that his toes were still capable of moving and he could still feel his legs. The tips of his fingers found initials _J. M_., he had just enough space to do that.

His fingers touched the wood all over, investigating the surroundings. The rough surface of the board. A tiny place. He smelt earth.

A coffin.

He shut his eyes so tightly he saw sparks behind his closed lids. He still could see the stars of his childhood night sky. He could almost, almost be among them, if he tried hard enough.

His mind palace could be enormous, and made just for him. _No __borders__, no tiny space with no room to change position. Everywhere just preferable, light, and __with __optimal space for him to pace, to study, to experiment. Not too much, not too little._

_He found all his life there. Everything he had studied, memorised, experienced, his formulas, experiments, theories, which he had done and would do, his most secret hopes, fears, plans for future. _

_And nobody would be hidden there without his permission, in his personal rooms, studies, libraries, waiting in shadows, watching, ready to hurt, instruments __of__ pain sharp and eager, waiting for use... just him._

He was suffocating. His oxygen was running out, it was hard to breathe. In so small a space, it wouldn´t last long. He had consumed too much already and next he would use the air that was already once consumed. And it was so dark that it didn´t make any difference whether he closed his eyes or kept them open. He had to get out from+

here, in one way or another. Suddenly his self-control gave way utterly. He had to move, there wasn´t any spare room there, not for his long legs to move or his lanky body to stretch. His muscles ached, and he started to try to dig himself out with his nails. When this failed, he kicked frantically against wooden walls which pressed against him as much as he could… and again he saw the false stars, not under the open sky, but at the bottom of his eyes, full of blackness.

He had thought that the cage in the barren room had been claustrophobic. Well, how wrong a man could be.

He needed to relieve himself. The urge to relieve himself had built slowly, but had steadily become more and more demanding. He really should. The men had forced him to drink all that water, filled him before they closed him in a coffin. What came in needed to come out. To soil himself here would be to lose a bit more worth.

He could hold it. He had to.

He had to get out. Immediately. He scraped his nails against the wooden roof, trying to break it. Was he buried underground, like a living corpse? Impossible to tell. His wooden prison could as well be on the floor in the middle of Moriarty´s bed room in a sick joke. Moriarty might be listening to his desperate attempts to get himself out in time for his amusement.

His nails scratched from his futile attempts to dig himself out. Again he had kept him there too long and he couldn´t take it, he had had enough of it all. He didn´t think about what would happen if he got himself out, if he really was under earth, how he supposed to get himself up through soil. His fingertips bled from his efforts to dig himself out from the coffin with his bare hands. His attempts were futile and doomed to fail. It was very difficult to prise open the thick wood. He tested his ability to move, to stretch himself… Not very good. The box was hardly longer or wider than him.

He could not breathe. The second hand air affected his brain like a drug. Panic would only worsen his situation, he had to fight against it. Shouting would consume precious oxygen and wouldn´t benefit him.

Eventually his body did what it needed to. He smelt his humiliation, and felt damp and filthy. The place he was kept was dark, like he was under earth, and it smelt of earth too. Surely he really was buried under earth to mimic a real death?

Sick bastard.

His body was tired of being restricted inside. He was weary. When tired he couldn´t analyse what would happen, where he would find himself. What nasty entertainment Moriarty had planned for him.

He could not get free. Even if he wasn´t locked and chained but stood under a night sky, counting the stars over him, he would not be free. His slave mark would always remind him of that.

His society didn´t offer refuge or forgiveness for a slave. No such a place existed, but there were plenty of ways to make a stray slave beg for forgiveness. The most serious crime a slave could commit was to try to break free.

He once witnessed a public execution of an escaped slave, when he was just a little boy. His father had wanted to show it, his brother stood there by him. The slave was naked, for all to see, when she was electrocuted to death. He remembered how the woman- no, just a girl- had screamed.

He had taken his brother´s hand.

It wasn´t a pretty sight for a six-year old boy.

His father bought them ice creams from a café after that. It had been a hot, cloudless summer day.

He had believed that he had deleted that memory. Obviously he hadn't.

"A slave," he thought. No, he said it aloud, and started to giggle hysterically. "The slave?" They taught them about slaves' freedom to be owned, to obey, to be ready for their owner. A slave achieved his purpose from his owner. He himself was nothing.

He screamed. Nobody heard him. He was not dead, but buried under the earth, he could smell it even inside his coffin. Jim Moriarty promised him that much- a death experience.

_Calm down._

His body still lived through the moments of torture, and he might rest in peace.

"A slave…" He started to giggle hysterically, he couldn´t stop himself any more. The disdainful thought didn´t leave him in peace when it had come into his brain. "A slave doesn´t own anything, doesn´t want anything, doesn´t need anything. His owner is the slave's everything, all it is good for is to fulfil its owners´ word. Slaves cannot be hurt, insulted, humiliated like a human could be. They don't feel like humans do. Their emotional side is mere instinct, plant like responses to light and dark, threat, and more restricted and underdeveloped compared to the Free." He didn´t remember if he had learnt this at school or in his house.

His giggle turned to a laugh, like this was the most hilarious joke in the world.

His oxygen had run out.


End file.
